Rachel Dane’s glum face related in surprise, as she exclaimed:
“Humph! I never thought he was so fond of her as that! All the love seemed to be on her side!”
“So she was fond of him?”
“Fond ain’t no word for it. She just worshiped the ground he walked on. Her sun rose and set in him. She was grateful for a smile or a kind word, and mighty few she got for all that; for of all the glum, moody men I ever saw, Mr. Dawn was the worst. I believe he hated his own life!”
“It was a guilty conscience maybe,” suggested Mrs. Flint, watching her out of the corner of her eye, to see how much she knew.
“You mean that he had treated his first wife bad for her sake—yes, maybe it was remorse. I don’t rightly know the facts, but I heard whispers,” answered Rachel Dane, coolly; adding: “There was something strange about it—his indifference to his wife, even after the child was born, that she thought would bring them closer together. But, la,” bringing herself up with a jerk, “this is all guesswork on my part. Maybe he loved her in a reserved kind of way. Anyway, I’m mighty sorry she’s dead. But where’s the child?”
“Cinthia? Her father came and took her away while you were sick. They have gone to Europe.”
“There! the kettle’s boiling over!” exclaimed Rachel Dane, rushing to the stove; and after that she avoided the subject of the deceased Mrs. Dawn.
But there could be no doubt that she was sincerely sorry over her death, for she became glummer and more taciturn from that hour, and her quarrel with fate grew more bitter.
But she stayed on and on with the lonely widow, giving good service, and perhaps grateful for the comfortable home she enjoyed, while she certainly relieved the loneliness of the quiet home that echoed no more to the girlish footsteps of Cinthia.